So While You Were Sleeping, I Grew up
by pxlenno
Summary: Snapshots of Henry LaMontagne's life as he comes to terms with growing up without JJ. (6/6)
1. Five

**Five**

* * *

You're five when it happens. You're five when the world as you know it comes tumbling down.

You're in the living room, happily scribbling away on a sheet of paper, brown crayon grasped tightly in hand. You're drawing a dragon: a fire-breathing, magical dragon! It would live in a cave at the top of a mountain, and you are in the middle of drawing said cave when your daddy walks slowly into the room, steps heavy with despondency.

However, you don't immediately notice his broken demeanor, the red-rimmed eyes—the palpable anguish—at all. Instead, you simply jump up, grab your dragon and run over to him, shoving your masterpiece into his hands and exclaiming, "Daddy! Look what I drew, look!"

He gives you a weak smile, and carefully sets your dragon down on the coffee table. He then crouches so that he is now at your eye-level.

This is when you first notice something off. Daddy didn't want to play; instead, he was quiet and serious. In fact, he was crying! This terrifies you more than anything: your daddy never cried (little did you know, this would grow increasingly common in the subsequent months).

"Henry... daddy has something important he needs to tell you," he starts hesitantly, "You remember... do you remember when we were watching Lion King last week, and in the middle, Simba's dad... he went to sleep, and never woke up?"

You nod, unsure of where he's going with this.

"That—the sleeping, it's something called dying and it...it lasts forever. That's because..." he pauses, as if struggling to find the right words, "…because even though Mufasa's body was still here on earth, his soul left, see? It left earth, because it went somewhere way better."

Ever the curious child, you cock your head and ask, "Where?"

"I don't know, buddy... that's what's so magic about it, see? No one knows exactly where it is. But believe me, its peaceful there."

You find yourself nodding again.

"So...Henry," he says, taking your tiny hand in his large one, "even though The Lion King is a cartoon, this can happen in the real world too, little man. Sometimes... sometimes people die, and they can't come back to us—they go away to the better place forever." Your dad looks away at this point, and wipes at his eyes with the back of his free hand. "They don't come back... not because they don't want to, but because they c-can't."

Growing more and more bewildered at this uncharacteristic behaviour, you launch yourself into your father's arms and give him a great big hug. "Don't be sad, daddy."

Your dad says nothing but brings you in closer to himself and hangs on tightly, as one would a lifeline.

"Where's mommy?" you ask, hoping that she would come and take away the sadness—one of the constants you've come to rely on.

"Henry...I..." he pauses and says, "It'll be really hard, but it's just gonna be you and me from now on, okay?" he stares at you with red-rimmed eyes, silently willing you to make the connection between this new statement and the earlier conversation—for fear of having to explicitly voice the horrid truth himself.

Unfortunately, you don't. To your credit though, you manage to stay silent and wait for your dad to continue.

And he does continue, with words that change your life. The next words you hear destroy the world you had up until then. The next words you hear will forever be ingrained into your memory:

"Mommy's not coming home, Henry."

* * *

**A/N: **so here's the first installment; I hope you all like it. To be honest, there's no real plot to this story-it'll simply be chronicling certain moments/turning points in Henry's life as comes to terms with JJ's passing, and how he grows up. The next chapter will be up soon (I have all 6 drafted, just need to hash them out some more). Thanks for reading, and if you have time, please leave a review 'cause I'd love to hear what you all think!


	2. Nine

**Nine**

* * *

You're nine when your dad starts dating again. You're not old enough to truly understand the magnitude of its implications, but you're old enough to process that you simply don't like it.

Your dad was your dad, and your mom (even though passed away) was still your mom. Although you're not naïve enough to think that everyone's family should be the quintessential American Dream (white-picket fence, nuclear family and all), you know that conventionally, a kid's mom and dad should be together. There shouldn't be other people on the side.

As such, you aren't entirely sure how to react to Julia, your dad's new date. Sure, she's nice enough. She smiles at you patiently and bakes really good cookies. Most importantly, she doesn't force you into interacting with her; she keeps her distance. She's also quite pretty, your nine-year-old-self admits—a pretty brunette lady with kind, hazel eyes. All the same though, Julia is nowhere near as pretty as your mother was, you conclude to yourself with strong resolution. Consequently, you feel yourself torn. You know that Julia seems like a nice lady, but you don't want to betray your mom, so to speak. Luckily, you normally aren't in a position where you need to react, anyway. Both your dad and Julia have been careful to give you your space, and to let you approach them in your own time.

However, just your luck, the BAU is having their annual Christmas potluck at Uncle Dave's place (which you and your dad have attended for as long as you can remember)—and this year, your dad had announced he was going to bring Julia. He was serious about this relationship, so it was about time she met the important people in his life, he had claimed. You had offered a noncommittal grunt in reply.

As soon as you arrive at the party, you make a beeline for the outdoor fountain, leaving the adults to their small talk indoors. You hear your father's happy voice, introducing Julia to your mom's former colleagues. Part of you knows that you should have stayed for the introductions; that would be the polite thing to do, and you usually have better manners than that. However, for reasons you can't explicitly word or comprehend yourself, there feels like nothing you'd rather do less at the moment.

Instead, you spend time throwing small pebbles into Uncle Dave's frozen-over fountain, attempting to crack the solid ice. This sufficiently amuses you for a bit. That's when you hear approaching footsteps.

"Henry?"

You turn around. It's not one of adults, as you thought it might be. Instead, you see Jack Hotchner, dressed smartly in a green windbreaker. "Oh. Hey, Jack," you greet the boy three years your senior.

Hands in his pocket, Jack nods at you. "How are you, man? Haven't seen you for a while."

"I'm… I'm alright," you say, fingering the pebble in your hand.

"Why don't you come inside? It's kind of cold out here. And they just got the chocolate fountain going—it's awesome."

"I'm okay out here," you say. Then you add almost as an afterthought, "Thanks."

However, Jack doesn't turn to go back inside, as you had expected him too. Contrarily, he comes even closer, and seeing the pebble in your hand, picks up his own. "Whatcha doing?"

You grin, and explain. He nods and eventually follows your lead, the two of you wordlessly chucking pebbles into David Rossi's fountain. After a while, you have to admit that it does begin getting chilly out. Jack seems to feel the same, as he stops mid-throw, and slowly lowers his arm.

"Hey Henry?"

"Yeah."

"I can't tell if you care that your dad is with someone new now… but even if you don't, I just feel like sayin' this, okay?"

You bite your lower lip. You admire and respect Jack—and have always looked up to the older boy. So as much as you don't want to hear this (nor address the matter at hand), you nod.

"When my dad started seeing Beth, I was so weirded out at first. But then… then I saw how happy she was making dad, especially when he hadn't been for so long. She makes him happy, and that makes me happy. So… so if you put it that way, she makes me happy too. I'm glad her and dad met. You get what I'm saying?"

You shrug.

"I'm not saying it's exactly the same for Uncle Will, but I think it's very similar."

You swallow and look away, saying softly, "I just—I don't want him to forget mommy."

Jack shuffles his feet awkwardly. "It's not that I don't miss my, uhm, first mom. I always do. I know dad does as well. But now it's like I have a second mom, and it's pretty awesome. Besides, Aunt JJ was so cool—it would be, like, impossible to forget her."

You finally look up at Jack. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure, dude."

You nod, and then the two of you stand in amiable and awkward silence.

After a bit, you clear your throat and feel the corners of your mouth lift as you raise an eyebrow at Jack. "So… is there actually a chocolate fountain inside?" you ask, eyes twinkling with mischief.


	3. Eleven

**Eleven**

* * *

You're 11 when you come across the boxes in the basement.

You had been looking for your dad's old skateboard. He had, in passing, mentioned how he used to ride, and you, being the adolescent you were, definitely took note of this juicy tidbit. Biking was something everyone could do; how cool would it be if you learned how to skateboard?

Thus initiated your exploration to the basement to brave the jungle of clutter that had amassed there over the years—perhaps good ol' dad still had that board hidden somewhere down here.

After making your way downstairs, you first glance around the room, and subsequently feel annoyance pool in your stomach: it truly was a jungle. With the logic that the clutter closest to the staircase would the newest and that those furthest would be oldest, you decide to start from the latter. Heaving a sigh, you maneuver your way to the far corner (which is no easy feat) to a stack of three cardboard boxes.

From the looks of them, they haven't been touched for years, the dust consequently staking their claim on the surface. You arbitrarily pick one of the boxes, and after quickly blowing at it to weaken the film of dust, you pry it open.

As the air contained in the box wafts to your nose, a sense of familiarity overtakes you; you seem to know that this is related to something from your past, a remnant of good times. It's the scent—which you can only describe as smelling _good _(hey, you're a dude; you don't go into specifics about that kind of stuff)—that tickles your memory before anything else, before you even begin to sift through the box's contents.

With excitement building in the pit of your stomach, you plunge your hand into the box. The first thing you pull out from the sea of items is a book. A thin, hardcover children's book entitled Bedtime for Baby Star. You crack it open, quickly flipping through the short and sweet poem. However, a strong wave of nostalgia hits you, and you shut the book just as quickly as you had opened it—and you know. You had a gut feeling, but now you know for sure. You know exactly what these boxes hold.

It's your mother's stuff.

You pause, staring hard at the book in your hands. You're not scared of sifting through the boxes, per se. In fact, you're curious. However, you respect your dad enough to know that there's a reason why these are packed away, and that if he wanted to share them with you… he would. This hesitation is short lived, though; at the end of the day, you're still a curious youngster, and these boxes were a treasure trove. This was your _mother's_ stuff! How could you resist?

You carefully place Bedtime for Baby Star aside on the floor next to you (this was something you wanted to keep in your room), and dive in. It's an hour and a boxful of clothes, certificates, and soccer trophies later when your dad comes to find you. "Hey bud, are you _still_ lookin' for that skateb-"

He stops midsentence when he sees the opened boxes surrounding you. "I… got a little sidetracked?" you offer meekly.

You watch as a series of emotions pass through your father's face in succession. If you weren't so nervous that you would get chastised, you might have found it mildly amusing. Shock gives way to annoyance then to sadness and eventually settles on a sad smile that you can't exactly place. Wordlessly, he walks over and seats himself on the floor next to you. He takes a deep breath, as if trying to get his bearings, then reaches over into the second box and pulls out a photo album. You watch in apprehension as he cracks it open, and slowly flips through the pages, one at a time. Though you don't have a clear view from your vantage point, you can tell that they're photos of your mom and dad, together. He stops at a particular one, and tries in vain to stifle a chuckle.

"What, dad, what?" you question, peering over your father's shoulder.

He shifts so that you can acquire a better view. "Hey, that's me!" you exclaim excitedly. Your father nods. Well, to be more exact, it's a candid photo of you and your mother. You're tiny—the sticker label underneath the photo indicates you're one and a half—and you're perched in a high chair, a mess of baby food everywhere (a mess of your making, no doubt). However, despite the ruckus and mess you've caused (some gloop even having landed on her cheek and nose), your mother is beaming at you, another heaping spoonful in hand. "I don't remember this!" you declare.

Your dad just laughs, "I definitely do. Heck, you're still that messy when you eat, kiddo."

"Hey!"

He falls back into silence. You watch as his hand slowly reaches out and touches your mom's face—slowly, gently, as if even the photographic imprint of her would disappear.

"She's pretty," you whisper.

Your dad replies in a voice even quieter than yours. "Absolutely beautiful." With that, he closes the book and places it back in the box. Looking over at you, he smiles and ruffles your hair. "Well, about that skateboard…"

He gets up slowly and shuffles over to the opposite corner of the basement. After a few minutes of rummaging, he re-emerges, dusty board in hand. "Got it," he declares, making his way back over to you, "go crazy, buddy. Or, uhm—not too crazy now. You still got that helmet in the garage right?"

You look down at the soccer trophies in your lap, and pick up the slightly deflated soccer ball you had found buried within the first box earlier. You have childhood memories of playing soccer, but had stopped ever since—well, ever since your mom had passed away. You bashfully look up at your dad. "Actually… I think I changed my mind. I was wondering if maybe… uhm, maybe I could pick up soccer again?"

Your father just smiles. "Sure thing, little man. Sure thing."

* * *

**A/N: **As always, thanks for reading! There'll be some appearances by some BAU members in the coming chapters, I promise. Feel more than welcome to leave a review, and have a happy new year!


	4. Fifteen

You're 15 when you find yourself fed up with Mother's Day—fed up to the point where you may have caused a bit of a commotion, and found yourself in the principal's office. You realize that Ms. Kirkpatrick, your well-meaning teacher, had meant nothing of it when she inquired about your mother. You realize that your peers should not be held at fault for actually having mothers to go home to. All the same, your realizations did nothing to assuage the welling anger in you, and you had found your chair overturned along with a mess of books strewn across the floor in your wake.

So now, because your dad was caught up with something at work, and because she was the next-listed contact, you find yourself with your godmother at Quantico headquarters. She had picked you up from school and signed you out for the day, insisting to your principal that all you needed was some time to clear your head and blow off some steam.

Of course, you've been to Quantico enough times to be familiar with it. However, today, you slow to a stop as you reach a wall full of framed portraits—meant to commemorate fallen agents and comrades—and you stare at _her_ photo. And as you continue staring, you feel your godmother watching you expectantly. Waiting for you to explain. "Henry? What's up, jelly bean?"

"I hate Mother's Day," you state.

"Oh?"

"We're meant to… to celebrate our mothers. And yeah, other kids have a mom to go home to while I don't—fine. Okay. I've dealt with that my entire life. But what gets me the most is that I don't know what to celebrate."

Aunt Pen nods at you, as if encouraging you to continue. So you do.

"I don't know what she did for me." You avert your gaze from the unblinking gaze of your mother's photo. "I-I know that's a horrible thing to say. I mean, you all talk about what a great person she was. How kind, and selfless, and heroic. It's not that I don't believe you. I do! Like, this damn plaque here shows that. But that's it. That's all I know about her. She did great things for other people; hell, she ended up dying for other people. But what about me?" You feel the corner of your eyes burning, and the threat of overspilling tears mounting. "She was a great agent, sure. A wonderful human being. But was she a good mom? Maybe she could have been, but from where I'm standing she's not—when it matters most, she isn't _here. _And that's not fair. It's not fair at all."

Penelope is quiet for a moment, so you turn to look at her. "You know how my parents died when I was 18? I was mad, Henry—so mad at everything," she says quietly. "First I was mad at that drunk driver that killed them… but then he was arrested and charged and I had no one left to be mad at. So I… I became mad at my parents. Tried to go against everything they wanted for me. I even dropped out of college. It was horrible, you know. And it took forever, but I eventually realized I was never really mad, just hurt."

You swallow, and avert your gaze.

"It'll always hurt a bit, because you loved them and it feels like you were robbed of the family you were supposed to have. Actually, not even feels like; you were. It's so unfair. But I've learned something over the years: that there's more to family than just blood. I've _made_ my own family with the BAU. That doesn't completely make up for no longer having parents, but it goes a crazy long way to making it better."

Because you don't respond, she continues. "JJ loved you _so_ incredibly much, Henry. I'm sure we've like, drilled that into you, but we only say it 'cause it's so true. It's definitely not fair that you don't get to have her in your life, but consider that it wasn't fair for her either. I'm sure there's nothing she wanted more than to be there for you. It's not fair that she doesn't get to see what a man you're growing up to be."

You look down at your feet. "I'm sorry, Aunt Pen. I didn't mean to get in trouble at school… there are just times I really want her here, and it sucks so much. It's-!" You don't get to finish, as your godmother swallows you in a bear-like hug.

"Say no more, jelly bean. I wish JJ were here too. God, I really do," Aunt Pen sighs as she steps back. Both you and your godmother take a moment to look up at the portrait of the late Jennifer Jareau, both lost in your own respective thoughts.

After a while, you speak first: "Could you… could you tell me about her? I mean, beyond the fact that she was brave, or died a hero. I just want her to be more real to me, you know?"

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone paints a picture of her that's so awesome—and I'm sure she was—but it sounds almost too good to be true. I want all of her to be remembered, not just the good parts. I want to know all her quirks and idiosyncrasies. Does that make sense?"

Aunt Pen smiles at you, eyes twinkling with amusement. "First of all: idiosyncrasies? You, my brilliant blonde boy, have been spending too much time with Spencer Reid. I know you're bright as they come, but chillax on the genius lingo!" she says with a chuckle. She swings an arm around your shoulders and guides you towards her office (lair). "Second, I'm proud to have such an inquisitive and deep godson. Oh, where to begin?"

And so, you spend the rest of Mother's Day in the company of your eccentric godmother, learning about the quirks of your mother, JJ: how her office was always a mess, her strange addiction to Cheet-o's, and her impeccable shooting accuracy, among other things. You soak it all in, allowing your godmother to tell you about your mother. It's an afternoon loaded with as much laughter as there are tears—bittersweet as they come.

When your dad finally gets off work and is about to swing by to pick you up, you give your godmother a peck on the cheek, and you tell her honestly: "Aunt Pen, I may not have been able to spend mother's day with mom… but spending it with my godmother definitely made up for it."

And with a final wave, you leave the office of a teary-eyed but beaming Penelope Garcia.


	5. Eighteen

You're 18 when you graduate high school… as the class valedictorian, no less.

The awards ceremony had been a stuffy but bittersweet affair. The reception now is no different, save for the addition of hugs and watery smiles and the sound of many good-luck-with-everything's or I'll-miss-you-keep-in-touch's filling the air.

Everyone had come to the ceremony (despite your protests that they needn't feel obligated to): aside from your dad and Julia, even all the members from the BAU had come to witness your rite of passage into adulthood.

The auditorium that is currently housing you all is packed to its capacity, and you're milling about the large crowd, accepting handshakes and exchanging congratulatory remarks with your classmates.

You spy Aunt Pen and Uncle Derek over at the refreshments table stacking their plates high with cheese and crackers, while Uncle Aaron, Aunt Beth, Aunt Alex, and Uncle Dave (now retired) seem engrossed in conversation. You also see your dad and Julia chatting amiably with other parents.

There's one more person missing from your quick headcount, though. You look around for Uncle Spencer, wondering where he went off to. It takes you a good quarter of an hour, but you eventually find him outside in the cool night air, leaning against the building's brick wall with arms crossed and a faraway look. You make your way over.

"Hey you," you greet as you near him.

Your words seem to pull him out of his thoughts and he looks at you, momentarily startled, but recovers quickly. "Henry! Congratulations," he smiles, "You are most definitely going to blow Yale away next year."

You grin. "Thanks, Uncle Spencer. I sort of _did_ learn from the best, after all," you say, knowing full well that your proficiency at academics is due largely in part to your godfather's enthusiastic tutorage over the years.

"Nah, that was all you," He tilts his head a little, as if contemplating something. After a momentary pause, he continues, "I don't know if your dad has ever mentioned it, but JJ was valedictorian for her graduating class as well."

You nod, feeling a swell of pride spring from within you.

"You really were great up there, Henry. You know… you have way with words, a real aptitude for public speaking," he muses, "and while I know talents are largely honed in development and that genetics can only minimally account for them… that skill—it's something you share with your mother."

You notice that the faraway look in his eye has returned and you know better than to interject, and so, you simply wait for him to continue.

He looks you dead in the eye and says, "You are every bit JJ's son, Henry. And that's a compliment—of the very highest order."

You nod again, suddenly overwhelmed. After 13 years, you know full well how little (if ever) your godfather voluntarily talks about your mother: while the rest of the BAU speak openly and freely about her, you've always noticed that your godfather often avoids the topic altogether. As a consequence, this—this simple statement—means more to you than all the congratulations you've received tonight.

And so, instead of replying, you open your arms and hug your godfather.

You feel his arms wrap around you in reciprocation. When you step back moments later, he says, "I've actually been thinking… if you'd like, you can drop the 'uncle' part—I know I'm your godfather and all, but we're both adults now, and I would be honoured to see you as my equal."

Letting out a small chuckle, you decide to try it out on your tongue: "Are you sure, _Spencer_?"

He pauses mid-nod, and furrows his brow. "Yes," he starts slowly, "but could you… could you call me Spence instead? Just Spence."

You nod, unsure of why, but acquiescing to the request.

Uncle Spencer—wait, no, _Spence—_simply winks at you and declares:

"It'll be a Jareau thing."


	6. Twenty-Nine

You're 29 when you become a father, 29 when your daughter is brought into this world.

You're antsy, anxious, and exhausted. The hospital room is undeniably stuffy, and the complicated affair that is childbirth has left an unruly mess in its wake. But despite all this, you feel an overwhelming peace and overwhelming contentedness. You don't think you've ever felt more pride—more love—than you do right now as you look at the two beings in front of you.

Your beautiful wife Lizzy (the exuberant real estate agent whose house viewing you decided to wander into on a whim five years prior) smiles meekly at you and offers up the small bundle.

Carefully, ever so carefully, you accept Lizzy's offering and lift the bundle to peer down at your daughter.

You peer down at Jennifer.

When deciding on names, there had been no qualms; Lizzy both understood and loved the idea immediately. And now, looking down at her namesake, you can't help but think of your mother. You briefly entertain the sad thought that she won't ever be here physically to meet her granddaughter, but moreso, you think of how she's ever-present in spirit—in the form of your guardian angel, your father's will to carry on, Spence's drive, Aunt Pen's affection—and you know without a shadow of a doubt that little Jennifer will be touched someway, somehow, by her grandmother.

You glance back up at Lizzy and see your proud grin and tears of joy mirrored in her own face, before returning your attention to the bundle of joy in your arms.

Your _daughter_. You can't imagine anything more perfect.

You're so mind-blown at such a prospect that you don't quite know how to react. And so, you do what your gut tells you to do; you do what feels natural... instinctual, even.

You kiss her lightly on her tiny nose (on her sparkly little nose) and you tell her, "No matter where you go, no matter where you are, no matter how big you grow and even if you stray far…"

She grabs your index finger in her fist, and your voice cracks just the tiniest bit—out of sheer joy, out of the enormity of your next words—and it is then that you finally and truly understand the magnitude of JJ's love for you: the magnitude of a parent's love for their child.

"… I'll love you forever, 'cause you'll always be my baby star."

* * *

**A/N: **aaaaaand that's all she wrote. Hopefully that serves as some nice closure for everyone. Thanks for anyone who has taken the time to review this—I greatly enjoy your feedback, and truly appreciate your kind words. Hope you've enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it : )


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